


Gouge

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo Amnesty Fills [15]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drama, F/M, Flirting, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Pre-Relationship, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22892416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: “God, at least let me give you a chance to avoid infection before IG-11 can get here with the bacta-spray.”
Relationships: Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Series: hc_bingo Amnesty Fills [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/942342
Comments: 6
Kudos: 113





	Gouge

“ _Please_ let me clean it.”  
  
The Mandalorian grunts, and Cara sighs.  
  
“Since you put on that armor as a, you know, way of life, have you ever had a fever? Because I don’t care if it’s _beskar_ or not: Having a fever when you’re covered head-to-toe in armor is a bitch and a half. You don’t have nearly enough ventilation in that helmet to make a difference.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“God, at least let me give you a chance to avoid infection before IG-11 can get here with the bacta-spray.”  
  
The Mandalorian considers.  
  
He _has_ had a fever in this armor before, a few times actually; none of them were experiences he cares to repeat today. And really, the only part of a Mandalorian’s body that should not be exposed to another is the head and face- Cara would only be seeing his back, and there’s nothing in his creed that prohibits that, especially in the face of an emergency such as this one.  
  
Besides, it isn’t as though he’ll be able to shower and clean the wound himself anytime soon.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“ _Great_. Now I have something to stop me from spiraling into boredom-induced madness for the next seven hours.”  
  
“IG-11 said it would only be five.”  
  
“Look- and hey, no offense, I know you two are buddies now that he’s programmed to look after the tyke-” She can’t see the withering look he directs at her, “-but he doesn’t strike me as having all his nuts and bolts screwed on right.”  
  
“You’re not wrong,” The Mandalorian mutters as his dismantles his armor, pulling it apart piece by piece and carefully setting it aside. Under normal circumstances, he takes the armor off only when bathing; if he’s hidden away with the other Mandalorians and is in no danger of being walked in on unannounced, he sometimes takes it off when he sleeps. To take it off now, in the darkness of an unfamiliar cave, with no certainty that there aren’t enemies lurking nearby- it’s a discomfort he isn’t used to feeling.  
  
Still, Cara’s right: He can’t just leave his back as-is.  
  
It was meant to have been an easy job, as so many of them are right up until they’re _not_. All they were meant to do was retrieve an ornate egg from the equally ornate dwelling of a woman Cara aggressively suspected of being a former Imperial of significant rank. “I can fucking _smell it_ on this place,” she had hissed as they’d crept across the roof.  
  
“This isn’t an assassination,” The Mandalorian had reminded her.  
  
“Maybe it should be.”  
  
In a way, he almost wishes it _had_ been an assassination, as that would have put them in a better position to deduce how much security was being used to guard the house. The answer, unfortunately, was ‘too much’. Fleeing had brought them into an elaborate cave-system natural to the planet, and they’d stopped running only when they no longer heard blaster-fire and boots stomping in the dirt. By that point, they had gotten themselves hopelessly lost in the dark, twisting passages.  
  
“ _It would have been prudent to keep track of your progress. Retracing your steps would have been much easier._ ”  
  
Cara had spat a few words into the communicator that, although inventive, had had little effect on IG-11.  
  
In the course of their escape she had sustained a black eye, and the Mandalorian had taken a few hits from a (apparently _extremely_ , if it had been enough to cut through Mandalorian armor) sharp axe to the back. His teeth clench now to consider the damage to the _beskar_ , knowing the Armorer is gone and unable to repair it or craft a new plate. His people have dwindled to precious few, and soon the secrets to working effectively with _beskar_ might be lost.  
  
“Wow,” Cara whistles once the back-plate is off. “He got you good. And also, just as a side-note, you are _ripped._ ”  
  
(That shouldn’t make him blush, but it does.  
  
Thank goodness he still has his helmet.)  
  
Cara pulls a flask off her hip, and the Mandalorian steps back when she uncorks it. “Is that water, or alcohol?”  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“Suppose not.” It ends up being water, but it still stings when it touches the ruined skin.  
  
Cara works carefully, wiping the blood away with what limited light they have. “You’ve got quite the selection of scars here,” She mutters. “This all from bounty hunting, or Mandalorian business?”  
  
“Bounty hunting _is_ Mandalorian business.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
Cara doesn’t speak for a while. After a few minutes of silence he eventually feels compelled to add: “Some are from training, when I was younger.”  
  
“Some of them are nasty.”  
  
“Which, specifically?”  
  
Cara hums, and then taps his hip close to the bone. “This one.”  
  
The Mandalorian shivers at her touch and turns slightly to cover it, as though he’s trying to see what scar she’s referring to; he already knows, because he knows every single mark on his body regardless of how often he sees it without the armor. “That was… A bar-fight.”  
  
Cara snorts. “Seriously?”  
  
“I may have started it to provide cover while I dragged out a bounty.”  
  
Now she laughs outright. “Why the hell did you need cover?”  
  
“I was young, and his friends were huge.”  
  
“So you _used_ to have a sense of self-preservation. Good to know.” Cara sighs. “Well, you’re going to have a few new scars from the look of this: You’re lucky he didn’t hit your spine.”  
  
“ _Beskar_ holds up under a lot of things.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get cocky. Do you have any bandages, any cloth or something else I can use for the bleeding?”  
  
“I have a cauterizing tool.”  
  
There’s a pause; he can imagine her cringing. “You sure you want me to use it? It’s going to hurt like a bitch.”  
  
“Better than bleeding out.” It sounds extreme, but IG-11 is still hours away and it is a legitimate possibility. He removes the tool from his belt and hands it back to Cara before bracing himself on the cave wall.  
  
“Alright… Well, I’ll do it on the worst one, and maybe the others won’t need it. You ready?”  
  
“As I’ll ever be.”  
  
Sealing up a wound on his shoulder had been painful enough; cauterizing one dangerously close to his spine will probably be worse.  
  
Cara moves quickly and carefully, clearly trying not to cause him anymore pain than necessary, but it _is_ as bad as the Mandalorian had expected it to be: His fingers press against the stone, his teeth clench and he tries _hard_ not to scream, because Cara’s already seen him vulnerable enough for one lifetime. “Almost done,” She assures after a few minutes when his vision is starting to go spotty. “I swear I’m almost done.”  
  
The Mandalorian grunts.  
  
The next few minutes drag on, but eventually the sparking of the tool comes to an end and Cara pulls it away. “It’s done. Still bleeding in a few places, but those will heal on their own.”  
  
The Mandalorian turns to face her, shoulders sagging a little, and then hisses when the motion pulls at the skin of his back. Cara’s not wrong: It’s going to leave a hell of a scar. “Good enough.”  
  
“Do you want me to get your armor and put it back-”  
  
“Leave it!” He hisses; his initial, knee-jerk assumption is that she’s asking if he wants to put it back on, and the mere thought of it is enough to turn his stomach. “Just- just leave it. It’s fine.”  
  
Cara holds up her hands in a placating motion. “Alright, leaving it.”  
  
The Mandalorian slides to the ground, moving to lean his shoulder against the wall, back throbbing violently. It will be hours before the skin and tissue calm down; he’ll probably be leaving the cave-system shirtless and without his chest and back-plate. Hopefully IG-11 won’t have moved the Razor Crest very far.  
  
Cara’s examining him with a sympathetic eye. “You good?” She asks, looking him up and down. “I mean, I can’t see your face, but your posture’s telling me that you’re not doing so well right now.”  
  
“I’m fine.” The benefit of the helmet is that she can’t hear how ragged and fucked his voice is.  
  
“I’m kinda worried you’re going to fall over and hurt yourself.”  
  
That’s certainly a concern.  
  
“You can lean on me if you want: If you face the wall and I’ve got you from the side, it’ll stop you from tipping onto your back.”  
  
The Mandalorian badly needs to not fall on his back right now.  
  
So he swallows his pride and shifts over to sit beside Cara, dropping his head onto her shoulder and leaning forward against the wall. She pats his arm gently, head tapping lightly against his helmet. “Rest. I’ll wake you up when IG-11 gets here.”  
  
“Or if the ‘troopers come back.”  
  
A beat.  
  
“I feel like I should handle that alone for now.”  
  
The Mandalorian grunts.  
  
“Fine, I’ll wake you up and watch you make a fool of yourself.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome, Mando.”  
  
-End

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started writing this before watching episode eight. That’s why a certain character is in this story even though they… Should… Not be.


End file.
